


Old Love

by marimoliciousness (thebirdlady)



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Slash (eventually)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebirdlady/pseuds/marimoliciousness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years have passed since Sanji and Zoro last saw each other. In a battle between old wounds and old love, which will prove stronger?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baratie

**Author's Note:**

> This story's time skip is non-canon, as it is ten years rather than just two and the events leading up to the splitting of the crew are a little different.
> 
> I first started to write this story and published the first few chapters (in a different language) in 2007. It has lain dormant since then, until today, when I finally figured out what it's all about! I'm currently overhauling what I already have and then will continue from there (tags and rating will be adjusted accordingly).  
> Anyone willing to join me and my OTP of all times on this journey, is welcome on board.
> 
> Ahoy!

„What the…“ A tentative touch on his shoulder drew Sanji from his daydreams and back into the reality of the bustling kitchen of the world’s only swimming restaurant. Out of reflex, he was already raising his leg even as he rose from the meticulouly scrubbed table at which he had been busy with the Baratie’s bookkeeping. At least until the endless columns of numbers began to swim before his eyes and his thoughts drifted away. Again.

 The leg shot down and even the quick reaction of the kitchen boy, who had immediately pulled back his hand and jumped to the side, didn’t save him as of one of his boss’ notorious kicks grazed his shoulder. Sanji didn’t feel much in the way of regret as he started tapping his foot impatiently on the floor. The boys were worse than fucking useless these days and he was being too lenient with them anyway. Just take the scrawny little runt who was currently cowering in front of him. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes under Zeff Red-Leg!

 Sanji’s dark look disappeared for a moment behind a curtain of blond hair, as he fished a crumpled pack from his trouser pocket, knocked a cigarette free with a single elegant movement, and lighted it. A bitter smile flitted across his lips. Zeff would never have tolerated Sanji smoking in his kitchen. He slid the pack back into his pocked and took a long drag. _But Zeff is no more and I make the rules now._ Slowly, he let the smoke pass through his thin lips. Then his gaze fell on the kitchen boy, who was still crouching on the floor, furtively holding his shoulder. He appeared to be fighting back tears, his lower lip quivering perilously, as he tried to avoid his boss’ disapproving frown. Sanji’s patience, a fragile thing to begin with, was rapidly falling apart. He grabbed the boys arm and pulled him to his feet.

‘Look at me!’, he growled.

In his heart of hearts he knew that he was being unfair to the boy, whose only crime had been to chose the worst possible moment to disturb Sanji. The older cooks, who knew him longer, were aware that discretion was the better part of valour whenever their boss was showing that particular far-away expression. Not that any of them had ever dared to ask Sanji what exactly was going through his head when he looked like that. They _liked_ being alive and reasonably unharmed, after all. It was a well-known fact, however, that their boss’ mood, unstable at the best of times, was at its absolute low point when he returned from wherever his mind had taken him, and even the slightest provocation could lead to considerable pain. No one who’d ever been on the receiving end of one of Sanji’s kicks was keen on offering such provocation. Still, when a concerned customer or scandal-thirsty restaurant critic asked the Baratie’s cooks just why they kept enduring Sanji’s abuse, they just shrugged and carried on with their work. For it was an even better-known fact that the man was the best chef in all the four Blues--bar absolutely none--and every cook who felt even the slightest spark of passion for his job, would have sold his soul for the privilege of working under Sanji. If a few bruises were the price of admission, so be it.

‘Well?” Sanji’s not-at-all-hidden impatience made the already nervous kitchen boy jump. He looked ready to bolt, but at a warning look from an older colleague, he curled his little hands into fists and raised his head, finally meeting his boss’ eyes. His voice, however, was unsteady when he spoke.

‘W-we have a n-new guest.’

‘And?’ Sanji’s eyebrows drew together and the already vice-like grip on the boy’s arm grew even tighter. ‘Why aren’t you outside and taking their order?’

The boy swallowed nervously and ducked his head, only to stare, mesmerized like a mouse in front of a banana-wani, at the shiny black shoe that had taken up its tapping again.

‘Be-bec--b--because…’

‘Because he’s scared of him,’ a young cook interfered, whose bright personality along with his blazing red hair had earned him the nick-name of Koujin, god of fire, the hearth and the kitchen. He now pushed himself between the trembling kitchen boy and his boss, dauntlessly holding Sanji’s gaze as he added, ‘We are all scared of him.’

Fury swept over Sanji in a hot wave and his leg was already rising to kick all those shitty, spineless bastards around him straight off the ship. Years of practice with this particular impulse, however, allowed him a small, but vital hold to a last shred of reason and decency, which now told him that he was very, very close to losing it completely. Taking deep, measured breaths, he slowly lowered his leg. These people were not his enemies. They were not responsible for his pain. His bitterness was all of his own making. And fucking bitter he was! Bitter, desolate, furious--and lonely. For nine long years, eleven shitty months and four fucking days. Next month, on his 30th birthday, it would be the tenth anniversary of his leave-taking from Luffy and … and the others. Perhaps that was why his daydreams had increased recently? _Daydreams, hah!_ He snorted derisevely _._ Who the fuck was he kidding? It was memories. Good old memories of times that had been so much better than anything he’d ever experienced before or after. They were like a summer fever: unexpected, unwanted, painful and leaving him feeling drained to the point that the only way he knew to fill the void was with rage, if he wasn’t to crumble under its load.

And they were all, ever, only about _him_!

A quiet whimper and a sharp ‘Sanji!’ called him back. Silent tears were streaming down the kitchen boy’s stricken face and Sanji was surprised to find that his grip had tightened almost to the point of breaking the fragile bone. With a silent sigh, he finally let go of the boy’s arm and turned to the table to put out his cigarette in the ashtray that was sitting next to the still open accounting books. He resisted the urge to scratch the spot between his shoulderblades where he felt Koujin’s accusing glare drilling into him. The young man’s heart was far too gentle, but Sanji liked him. He had courage. Usually he was the only one make a stand against his boss when the rage that was always bubbling just below the surface threatened, once again, to overcome him. Sometimes he was too late and got nothing but a painful battering for his trouble, but more often than not his quiet, unfearing manner succeeded in calming Sanji’s rage before he could wreak any lasting damage. And Sanji was well aware that if his employees hadn’t mutinied yet and, thus, the Baratie was still flourishing, it was all down to Koujin’s tirelessly running interference.

Having collected himself a little, Sanji turned to regard the men around him. The men who were, despite everything, his crew. Ten pairs of eyes nervously looked back.

‘So, you’re scared of a guest?’

Since the question carried more disbelief than threat, hesitant nodding rippled through the crew. 

‘More scared than you are of me?’

More nodding, accompanied by scattered laughter. Amused, Sanji gave his crew a wide grin.

‘Well then, I guess I’d better go have a look at this fearsome monster.’

He pulled an impeccably pressed white cloth from the stack near the door and draped it over his arm with a practiced flick. Giving his kitchen boy an encouraging pat on the back, he strode forward and, armed with his brightest smile, pushed open the swinging door to the restaurant.  

His smile lasted all of two seconds, which was exactly as long as it took him to get a good grasp of the situation. Since it was early afternoon, the Baratie’s large dining area was empty except for a handful of regulars who were enjoying a second helping of their after-lunch coffee.  Except that they didn’t seem to be enjoying the smooth, agreeable yet invigorating blend, at all, what with being too busy peering apprehensively in the direction of the entrance door. Sanji could feel the familiar rage pooling in his belly as he followed the nervous glances to see who was disturbing his restaurant’s precious harmony. He would show that assh…

Sanji froze when his eyes fell on the massive figure sitting at the table right next to the door, posture relaxed, face turned towards the window beside him. The man’s position made it difficult to make out any details of his face, but Sanji’s blood was suddenly roaring in his ears as his heart begann to beat furiously in his chest. _Calm down, damn it._ _It could be anyone!_

It could be. 

But it wasn’t. 

Sanji really didn’t need to see the three katana to know who was filling the room to the smallest nook with his sheer presence. And yet, it was impossible! _It can’t be!_  

But then the afternoon sun broke through the clouds, and the shock of hair over the stark profile lit up a bright, unmistakable marimo green. 

‘Fuck…’ 


	2. Encounter

‘Fuck!’

For an instance Sanji had to fight the irrational urge to flee, but after another steadying breath the moment had passed. Or rather: his rage had taken over again.

The shift in Sanji’s body was imperceptible, but suddenly there was an aura of danger around him that made the remaining guests, who had only now become aware of his presence, as well as the cooks crouching behind Sanji in the kitchen door shy away from him. The restaurant’s atmosphere, which until a moment ago had been dominated by the presence of the unknown swordsman, now seemed to crackle as if two enormous storm fronts were about to collide.

The stranger, however, didn’t appear to notice. He was still looking impassively out the window as Sanji approached him, unhurriedly, each step ringing in the hushed restaurant, each a harbinger of doom. Only when the table in front of him was kicked to splinters did the man turn his impassive face towards Sanji. Everyone else held their collective breath. The swordman’s presence was almost palpable as focused his attention to Sanji, who was trembling with barely suppressed fury. Their eyes locked and for all of 30 seconds a strained silence filled the large room. When Sanji finally spoke, his voice was tight.

‘What are you doing here, marimo.’ It was a threat, not a question.

The miniscule raising of an eyebrow in an otherwise indifferent face was all the reaction the stranger offered. And it was very effective. Sanji couldn’t help his foot beginning to tap against the hardwood floor, as he waited for more. Anything.

‘Lunch?’ When he finally did speak, the derision in the stranger’s deep voice send shivers down the involuntary spectators’ spines. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

His foot speeding up, Sanji slowly curled his hands into fists as he fought for control.

‘Get out…,’ was all he managed to say before Zoro’s fucking unfazedness finally made him snap. Without warning, his impatient right foot shot up to kick some kind of human response out of that moss-covered lump rock. But instead of connecting with a tanned temple, his foot met with a sinewy forearm. Sanji immediately leapt back, only narrowly escaping the hand that flashed out to grab his ankle. Fuck, Zoro was fast! Had he always been this nimble? Or had he himself perhaps… Tch! With a snort, Sanji spun and pushed all the momentum into another deadly strike, but this time his kick didn’t even connect. The shitty marimo had evaded him with insulting ease. While seated. _Fucking shit!_

Sanji doubled his efforts and soon a barrage of kicks rained down, which the stranger either dodged or blocked with his powerful arms and a completely unfazed expression. As Sanji’s maneuvers, fuelled by naked frustration now, were growing wilder and wilder, Koujin felt that the time had come to ask the remaining guests to leave for their own health and safety. As it was, it would be difficult enough to protect the Baratie from a scandal. It didn’t bear thinking what would happen if his intemperate boss hurt his customers! He shot an uneasy glance at the green-haired stranger. Let alone what damage that man might wreak should he suddenly decide to draw one of those swords. That they were more than just decoration was obvious even to his untrained eye. Koujin didn’t waste any time on speculations why the swordsman wasn’t using his weapons but, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on the two opponents, made his way towards the other guests who’d taken refuge huddled together under the circular staircase. It didn’t take much to persuade them to follow him to the kitchen door where his colleagues ushered them inside and, under many proclamations of regret and apology, through the kitchen and out the back door. 

Koujin was releasing a sigh of relief when something heavy hit him in the back, pressing the air from his lungs and throwing him to the floor. Even as he was gasping for breath, he heard Sanji curse above him and then the weight was lifted off him. With a groan the young man turned around to see his boss standing with his back to him. Sanji’s shoulders were heaving, his breathing clearly audible. His hand swept something off his face. Worry knotting in his stomach, Koujin tore his gaze away from his boss and looked past him towards the stranger, who was still sitting at his demolished table, face blank. But the knuckles of his right hand, resting easily on his thigh, were smeared red. Koujin’s eyes widened in shock. Had the green-haired beast beaten Sanji’s face bloody? Did he have a death wish? Stunned and yet driven by a sick fascination Koujin’s gaze wandered back to his boss, expecting him to fly into a deadly rage any moment now. But the moments ticked away and Sanji kept just standing there, his whole body peculiarly still.

Sanji was at a loss. He should be angry, he knew. Even _more_ angry, that was. After all, Zoro had struck him in the fucking face! But as the coppery taste of his own blood had flooded his mouth, his rage had simply blown out, gone as quickly as it had come and leaving behind only mild puzzlement. Sanji carefully ran his tongue along his teeth, making sure that they were all accounted for, while absentmindedly rubbing the already drying blood between his fingers. He looked across the room at Zoro. Even now the once so familiar face seemed alien in its complete lack of expression. The thin scar where Zoro’s eye should be didn’t help either. If anything, looking at it only added another twist to Sanji’s already knotted guts. He looked away, gaze dropping to three swords resting undistrubed in their sheaths. 

Zoro hadn’t drawn his swords. Not one.

‘Why?’ Sanji was a little surprised by the tiredness in his voice, but even more taken aback that he had spoken aloud at all. Zoro’s matter-of-fact reply, however, was immediate.

‘Because your kicks are pathetic.’

Disbelieving murmers drifted over from where his crew was once again croweded in the kitchen doorway, but Sanji paid them no heed. Now that the rage had left him, he felt empty, flat, disconnected from a situation he had no idea how to deal with. Too much was going on at once. The memories, never far from Sanji’s mind, should have come to life when he fought Zoro, but they hadn’t. Not really. Unexpectedly, instead of reliving them Sanji felt as if he was looking at old, faded photographs of events that he _knew_ had been his life, but didn’t _feel_ like his own anymore. He wanted to grieve, but didn’t really know what for. And then there were the changes in the swordsman. He was older, obviously, broader, stronger, even more scarred. Nothing felt right about him, except that when Sanji had caught a whiff of Zoro’s smell earlier, that mixture of sweat and oil and saltwater, the burst of emotions that had suddenly invaded him had almost brought him to his knees. That scent carried all Sanji knew about the other man, it was like a map of Zoro that he could follow blindly even after ten years.  A very scary thought had struck him then and he had suddenly been desperate for confirmation that Zoro felt it too, that this connection, however deeply buried, was still there. But Zoro’s face might as well have been carved from stone. It gave Sanji nothing, and the sudden feeling of loss had staggered him enough to not see the fist before it hit him. He idly scratched at the blood flaking between his fingers. It wasn’t even as if Zoro had ever been big showing his feelings… _Except when he did_ , the voice in his head reminded him and Sanji tried hard to block out the guilt that inevitably followed, focusing instead on a more tangible issue. 

As much as it rankled him to admit it, there was no denying that Zoro had gotten incredibly strong. For all of Sanji’s ferocity, Zoro might as well have been swatting away the attacks of a pesky fly. And that pissed Sanji off more than anything else: he hadn’t been able to do anything to make the marimo reach for his oh-so-beloved swords. When they’d still travelled together they’d fought almost on a daily basis, and sooner or later Zoro would always pull his oversized knives. Though they both would have rather bitten off their tongues than openly acknowledge it, their strengths had always been on par. 

Today, however, Sanji had been no more of a threat to Zoro than any Tom, Dick or Harry Marine. 

And to add insult to injury, the shitty marimo, while acting all mysterious and opaque himself, had without hesiation answered Sanji’s question, as if he’d read his mind! A fucking useful ability that would have been ten years ago… Sanji’s mouth stretched into a bitter smile and he winced at the sting in his mistreated lip. Probing the swelling gingerly with his fingers, Sanji chuckled darkly. The damned marimo was right, he _was_ out of practice.

 _Well then._ Putting off the inevitable really wasn’t the strawhat way. He straightened his back, lit another cigarette and took a calming drag before exhaling slowly, deliberately. 

‘Koujin, quit staring holes in my back. Bring our guest a new table and something to eat.’

He didn’t wait for a reply, but walked over to the wreckage of the old table and dropped into a chair across from Zoro. He knew that the marimo couldn’t have come here of his own accord, not after what had happened. But it was equally certain that he wouldn’t leave until he’d completed his mission, whatever it was. So, Sanji figured, the sooner he found out what had brought Zoro here, the sooner his unwelcome guest would leave the Baratie--and Sanji to his comforting rage and his grief for missed opportunities. 


	3. (Un-)Familiar

It didn’t take long for the food to arrive and Sanji noticed with some satisfaction the efficiency of his employees even under considerable pressure. His school of hard kicks appeared to be bearing fruits. With only a few nervous glances at their boss and their eerie guest, they had quickly replaced and freshly laid the table. Shortly after, Koujin brought out a perfectly arranged plate and silently put it in front of Zoro. He shot his boss a questioning look, but Sanji waved him off. Koujin’s face grew dark.

‘You should also eat something. You’re too skinny.’

No less surprised than Sanji himself, Koujin’s mouth fell open as he stared at the stranger. The man hadn’t spoken as many as ten words so far, and now he was blatantly saying what Koujin had never dared tell Sanji. At least not since his first--and last--attempt to talk to him about his state of health, after having watched Sanji grow skinnier and skinnier for months. Sanji, however, had been extremely clear about his lack of tolerance for such forays into his privacy. No exceptions, not even for him. Koujin had been hurt, but he’d known better than to show it. He wasn’t about to risk his already slender privileges, so he’d contented himself with occasionally leaving a plate on Sanji’s working table and being glad if even half of it had been emptied by the end of the day. It wasn’t a satisfying arrangement, but Koujin had learned not to expect too much. And now this green-haired muscleman showed up and blithely broke one of the most important rules the men of the Baratie had learned to respect on pain of, well, greater pain!

Koujin was torn between a sudden onset of jealousy and a reluctant respect for the stranger, especially since Sanji didn’t explode as expected, but only scoffed a mild ‘Oi!’. Displaying a highly uncommon equanimity, he was just sitting there, contemplating the giant, who was polishing off his meal without any finesse or, indeed, showing any sign that he appreciated the quality of the food. Koujin’s usually even temper cracked. How dare that impossible man gulp down Sanji’s fine food as if there was no difference between the cuisine of the Baratie and the next quayside bar! Hah! Most likely, this was the first time ever that this savage had even been near a restaurant with the Baratie’s standing, let alone eat one of its exquisite compositions! Where was his respect for Sanji’s incomparable skill, where his gratitude? Indeed, the stranger should be grateful that Sanji hadn’t just kicked him off the ship after he’d started a fight for no reason at all! 

Koujin didn’t care that he probably wasn’t thinking straight anymore or that he might be giving one or two facts a false colour. He was too scandalised to see his boss’ hard work being cast like pearls before a green-haired, brawny swine. Just when he was about to open his mouth to vent his indignation, Sanji cut him off.

‘Was there anything else?’

One look at the cold blue eye was enough to rapidly put a damper on Koujin’s agitation. He swallowed dryly.

‘No.’

With a curt, stiff bow he turned on his heel and stalked back to the kitchen. Why was he even bothering with this madhouse anymore?

Sanji looked after the young cook and sighed. Perhaps he would have to apologise later. The boy was alright and it was largely due to his patient care that Sanji hadn’t completely lost his mind, or the Baratie. He knew that Koujin liked him, but he had been careful never to make the boy any promises. If he still occasionally joined Sanji in his bed, he knew what he was getting in for. Sanji suspected that Koujin was still hurt by his reservedness, but Sanji trusted him to be smart enough to make his own decisions. If Koujin ever decided that he couldn’t live with the situation any longer, Sanji would let him go, but until that day he was honestly thankful for the young man’s considerable assistance. He took the last drag on his cigarette and lighted a fresh on. _Yeah_ , he thought as he exhaled smoke, _I’ll apologise to him later_. It wasn’t Koujin’s fault, after all, that he couldn’t hope to replace what Sanji had lost.

Automatically, Sanji’s gaze returned to Zoro, who was currently devouring the most expensive dish on the menu. His cooks really seemed to be in awe of the swordsman, whose expression, however, gave no indication of whether he appreciated the gesture or not. Sadness returned to Sanji as his mind’s eye showed him a younger Zoro. One who’d never been a man of many words, but whose eyes had been capable of conveying enough pride and appreciation to make Sanji grow hot and not a little bothered.

Sanji resolutely pushed the memories aside. They’d be sure to return once Zoro was gone again anyway. For now, he’d rather take the opportunity to observe Zoro more closely, while he was still busy with his meal. It had been ten years since they’d last seen each other, after all. In that time, Zoro had grown up. Very little in his chiselled face reminded Sanji of the younger Zoro, who’d either been sleeping or training. Who’d often been crabby, but who also could break into unrestrained laughter when Luffy had once again managed to get Usopp, Chopper and himself into trouble. 

From his incredibly solid body it was evident that Zoro had kept training. And Sanji had just had excellent first-hand experience of the fact that Zoro had not only gained body-mass, but speed as well. _How he must look in a real fight now…fucking impressive, I’ll bet._ His gazed returned to the strong, hard lines of Zoro’s face. _Still attractive despite that scar_. The scar made Sanji queasy, and yet his fingers were itching to touch it, to brush over the abused skin, run over the soft hair of a temple, the nape of a neck that looked twice as wide as Sanji’s own. 

Sanji took another deep drag. He let the familiar burning in his lungs calmed him a little, then allowed a silent sigh to escape with the puff of smoke. There were many very good reasons not to attempt touching Zoro, and not all of them were rooted in their fucked-up history. No, there was something deeply unsettling about Zoro’s complete lack of expression, and that was entirely new. Up till now Sanji hadn’t seen a single emotion on the sharp features and dread settled in his heart at the thought that this could be Zoro’s usual condition now. And what remained of the jet black eyes, always fairly good indicators of the swordsman’s mood in the past, was flat and cold now. Desolate. The only thing that was truly alive about him now was the incredible aura Zoro emitted. Even now, as he was peacefully sitting and eating, Sanji would have been able to feel his presence with his eyes closed. It was difficult to describe. A sort of pressure, perhaps, not so much against his body, but against his mind? _No_ , he thought, feeling a little foolish but knowing himself to be right, _against my soul_.

Sanji leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head. Zoro had become an engima that wouldn’t be easily solved. Indeed, he couldn’t say for sure if he even wanted to solve it. A part of him wished the goddamed marimo far away, away from his restaurant, away from his shitty life. Since trying to push Zoro into any sort of action had never worked all that well, however, Sanji decided to mentally go over the Baratie’s purchases for the next week while he waited until the marimo was ready to explain whatever had driven him to come here.

 

***

Zoro had never considered himself knowledable in food matters beyond the easy-to-follow three categories of will-kill-you, will-not-kill-you and alcohol, but he had to give it to Sanji: his cooking was second to none. Even if he was far from impressive in all other respect. If he’d challenged Brooks in a death-on-legs contest, he might only have lost because there still _was_ some skin on his bones, papery though it looked. Only his eyes, too big in his gaunt face, were still as lively as ever. Irritatingly, none of that translated into his kicks anymore. With that show earlier he might be able to intimidate your average customer, but the Sanji who’d almost been a match for Zoro was all but gone. Extremely irritating, that. A couple of proper fights would have made the voyage home at least moderately bearable, but never mind. It wasn’t as if Zoro was a stranger to this situation. Since he’d finally beaten Mihawk a few years ago, there’d been a rapid decline in worthy opponents. Zoro had found that it was, indeed, lonely at the top. The only option he’d had was to exchange quality for quantity, but even mass brawls with swordsman wannabes grew boring after a while. 

Sometime he wondered how Luffy did it. As pirate king he had the same problem. But then, Luffy had always had his own way to deal with the world. That hadn’t changed in all the years and was the reason why Zoro himself had stayed with his captain even after they’d all fulfilled their dreams. The many years they’d been journeying together had welded them together so tightly that Zoro found it hard to imagine a life in which he wasn’t at Luffy’s side. Then again, life had proven before that it didn’t give a damn about Zoro’s agenda, but that couldn’t rattle him anymore. He owed Luffy so much, not least because he’d fought long and heart for the trust of his swordsman back when Zoro was very nearly drowning in his own darkness. It had been a close call, but Luffy had managed to save Zoro from giving up on his life and his nakama. There had been many occasions when Zoro cursed him for it, and it had only been much later that he’d realised just how great a service Luffy had done him. If Luffy hadn’t stayed so stubbornly persistent, Zoro would have fled from the one kind of pain he couldn’t face, couldn’t survive a second time. But Luffy had forced him to fight, to stay alive and alert, all the while reminding Zoro of who he was, who he wanted to be, and most of all: that he wasn’t alone, no matter that he knew differently at his very core. Luffy had been relentless, and one day Zoro had given in. He had trusted Luffy for a long time, no matter how hare-brained his ideas seemed, so it was easy, comfortable to simply trust him again, to believe that Luffy knew best. 

Zoro had kept fighting for along time after that, against his body during the day, and during the night against his heart. His body had complied easily, but his nightly struggles had proven to be tenacious and plagued by set-backs time and again. But eventually Zoro had concquered even the last stubborn emotion and finally regained control over his life. Thanks to Luffy.

And now Luffy had sent him away. On a mission that, Zoro thought, Nami or Robin could have carried out just as well. Better probably. At least, Sanji would have welcomed those two with open arms instead of kicks. In addition, Zoro was long past having any illusions about his sense of direction. He was certain that it would’ve taken the others only half as long to find the stupid swimming restaurant. Which was a crackbrained idea anyway, he’d have told anyone who’d ask him. But since nobody asked and the captain’s orders were the captain’s orders, he’d taken the Queen Vivi, a smallish, but well-equipped ketch that Franky had constructed a while back for just such occasions when one or two of the Strawhat crew needed to travel on business of their own, and set out towards the elusive restaurant. By the time he’d finally found it, he’d been ravenous as the provisions that stingy sea-witch had allowed him had run out days ago.

Thoroughly famished, he was now pitching into his first hot meal in weeks. The disapproving look Sanji’s boy toy was giving him didn’t concern him in the least. If the red-head indeed warmed Sanji’s bunk, as Zoro suspected, he’d be no stranger to grief anyway. His attention firmly fixed on his meal, he only looked up after he’d scraped the last morsel of food from his plate. Sanji was lounging in the opposite chair, scrutinizing him with a practiced eye. Then he cocked his head towards to the scowling red-head, who moments later replaced Zoro’s empty plate with a full one, setting it down with more force than strictly necessary. _Passive-aggressiveness, the weapon of wimps._ Zoro disliked wimps almost as much as Luffy hated bullies. Knowing full well the effect he had on others, he looked the young man straight in the face until he was sure to have his undivided attention. As per usual, this didn’t take long. Effortlessly holding his gaze, he raised an eyebrow ever so slowly. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on the pale young man’s forehead as he stood transfixed in front of Zoro.

‘How about a beer?’ Zoro asked with the easy amicability of the predator who can afford to play with his prey, before he abruptly released the now ashen youngster from his spell.

Apparently having lost his voice, the red-head bowed hastily and ran back to the kitchen only to return at once with a bottle and a glass. After a few erratic attempts at opening the bottle Zoro waved the young man of and and watched him retreat, visibly shaken, to the kitchen door. _Wimp_. Zoro uncapped the bottle in one neat movement and took a deep draught before he set it down next to his plate. 

‘What?’, he asked gruffly when he noticed Sanji smirk.

‘I’d thank you for not making my employees soil their pants, moss-head.’

‘Tch. If that little ero-cook had a spine, his pants would be fine.’

 

***

_Ero-cook?_ Sanji’s amusement was gone as quickly as it had come. Luckily, Zoro didn’t seem to notice. He was already concentrating on his meal again and had spoken the last words with his mouth full. For a while, silence settled over their table. Zoro alternated between his food and his beer, of which a very astute Koujin now brought bottle after bottle, while Sanji stared out the window. Finally, Zoro announced the end of his meal with a resonating belch. Sanji looked over, wrinkling his nose. 

‘You still haven’t learned any manners.’

Zoro didn’t reply, but only shot him a blank look. Sanji’s face grew hot and he quickly returned to his contemplation of the the slowly passing clouds.

More silence.

‘So. What brought you here?’, Sanji finally asked without turning. If Zoro wasn’t about to talk, then he would do it. His mind was in turmoil, his stomach churning, and the longer he had to bear Zoro’s presence, the harder he was finding it to keep a grip on it all. He needed to be alone, so the first thing he had to do was to get rid of this univited visitor from the past as quickly as possible. _Good to see you again?,_ he thought bitterly, _I don’t fucking think so._

No reply from Mr. Taciturn.

His nerves fraying, Sanji turned to glower at him, his foot already tapping. 

‘Well?’

Zoro was calmness personified when finally opened is mouth.

‘Luffy sent me.’

Aha. Well, Sanji had already figured that much. 

’And?’, he asked testily. Would he have to drag every tiny fucking detail out of the damned marimo now? He was already fast approaching the end of his tether. But what Zoro said next shook Sanji so much that, by comparison, what he’d been feeling up to now seemed like a pleasure cruise in fair weather.

‘I’m here to take you home.’


End file.
